March 24
Dear Mayor Ted,
I am pretty mystified at your silence. It’s true I live in Gresham and not the city of Portland. But I have been a Portland Metro person my entire life. I live in Gresham, but my work takes me to Portland every week. What makes someone a Portlander? Is it an address? Is it home ownership? Is it owning a business in Portland, is it doing business in Portland? Is it driving on Portland highways regularly? Is it riding the Max? Is it regularly attending events in Portland, is it being born at Emanuel Hospital? Is it attending Holy Redeemer Grade School and St Mary’s Academy? Is it having a grandfather that settled in Portland from Sweden in the late 1930s, whose home on Gantenbein St was condemned for an expansion of Emanuel Hospital that never happened? Is it a father raised in Portland? Who worked in Portland on N Broadway and Weidler St, and Wheeler Ave where they create a triangular block near the
Broadway bridge,
(it was Mutual Wholesale Drug Company when my father worked there, now owned by Left Bank) for 35 years, before and after he fought in WWII, leaving for boot camp a couple of weeks before his high school graduation from Jefferson High School?
Am I Portland enough to deserve a reply to my multiple emails?
The way I have been acknowledged (not) reminds me of the way you have treated the homeless. I am a nobody. I am a nothing. I deserve nothing. My treatment certainly illustrates the problem. Your opinion however is wrong. I am someone. I am every Portlander. I am the homeless, I am a transit passenger, I am a tax payer, I am a community participant in every sense of the work.
Today I marched with the kids.
It was exhausting to face head-on the mess our country is in. Someone asked me if it was exciting. It wasn’t “exciting”, it was duty. It was purpose, it was important. It was not exciting.
And I spent the day with my friends at the delta on Friday. It was propane day. I filled 15 propane tanks. As usual I asked one of the campers to assist me. Greg said no at first. He said he hadn’t been feeling well. I told him I’d buy him a pack of cigarettes if he’d help me. That perked him up. When we stopped for his cigarettes, I also surprised him with a box of Cocoa Puffs. Greg is not the kind of person you ask a lot of questions. I listened to him instead. He told me about being in jail overnight recently. How the nurse prescribed antibiotics for some of his wounds that would not heal. She had told him to fill the prescription at the Multnomah County Clinic but they would not do it for him. He told me he was 51. That was a surprise. Though most of the campers are actually younger than they look, some how I thought Greg was in his thirties.
Wikipedia tells me you are 56. Can you imagine at 51 sleeping every night in a tent? Unsure where your next meal came from? Not having food, lodging or employment security for years? Greg is another of the campers that I’ve never seen him high. I know he has social problems, PTSD, but primarily he just wants to be left alone.
Greg gave me some advice. He said he’d seen a lot of volunteers burn out over the years he’d been homeless. He counselled me to take a vacation, to look after my needs, to let someone cover for me so I would not grow bitter.
While we drove back to the park with the filled propane tanks we discussed a couple that had recently broken up. Greg talked about what hard workers both of them were. That they tried constantly to improve their situation but now Tex had hooked up with a new gal. Greg didn’t know her. We both agreed Tina would probably take Tex back when the new girl grew tired of him. I am going to struggle with forgiving Tex. It’s none of my business I know but Tina’s obvious willingness, right now, in the midst of her suffering, to forgive, that makes me angry and at the same time challenges me to be a better person.
This evening I am heavy hearted.